How To Save A Life
by Wholocked221
Summary: *Johnlock fic based off of How To Save a Life by the Fray* "I will burn you. I will burn the heart right out of you." A promise was made years ago in a darkened pool, and now it's about to be made good on by - before he even knows Sherlock is alive - targeting John. The blogger is kidnapped and Sherlock must race to save him before his own heart is burnt right out.


**Author's Note: Just a multi-chapter Johnlock fic based on the song "How To Save A Life" by the Fray me and my best friend had the idea for. I hope you like it!**

**Disclaimer: If I owned Sherlock, season 3 would have aired a year and a half ago.**

_Step o__ne, you say we need to talk_  
_He walks you say sit down it's just a talk_  
_He smiles politely back at you_  
_You stare politely right on through_  
_Some sort of window to your right_  
_As he goes left and you stay right_  
_Between the lines of fear and blame_  
_You begin to wonder why you came_

Sherlock was curled up in a chair that wasn't his chair, in a flat that wasn't his flat, his mind wandering, a laptop that wasn't his or John's resting on his lap when John walked in the door. He looked up to see his blogger holding a bag with a carton of milk in the plastic. A faint smile flickered on his face, reaching his stormy eyes.

"You used the last of the milk for your expiriment with those thumbs. I had to get more," he said. He closed the door behind him and moved to step into the sitting room from the darkened hall. "No!" Sherlock shouted. He jumped up from the chair, the laptop hitting the ground in front of the chair. "No! Don't!" His curly black hair was wild, as if he hadn't brushed it in a while. John stopped, a curious look on his face. "Sherlock," he said. He took a few steps forward, entering the sitting room. The slightly warm, mid-morning sun streaked through the one open window. Sherlock's pale face paled more. "John - stop!"

The light from the sun outside streaked through and hit John's shoulder. "You should really -" but his voice cut of because as the sun warmed the doctor, he disappeared, his entire body, clothes and all, fading and fading until there was nothing left standing in front of the window. Sherlock took another step forward, towards where John had been. John wasn't there. John would never be here. The blonde man, the old army doctor, _his _doctor, _his_ blogger, didn't even know he was alive. The last words John had spoken to him - that he wasn't even aware Sherlock had heard - were still burned into his mind.

_"One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be... dead. Would you do that, just for me? Just stop it. Stop this." _

Sherlock missed him. He missed a lot about his life before. He missed the cases. He missed London. He missed showing off his cleverness in front of the idiots at the Scotland Yard. He missed - actually - Lestrade. He missed 221b. He missed Mrs. Hudson. He missed watching crap telly with John. He missed beating John every time when they tried to figure out cop shows before the characters did - except that rare time John won. He missed eating at Angelo's with John. He missed John yelling at him over having mold in the fridge. But most of all, he missed John.

He missed John's hair, his blue eyes, the way he stood, the way he walked, his voice. He missed everything about him. And he needed him back. He tripped over the lid of the laptop when he walked forward, hitting the ground. His knees were bruised when he pulled himself up. He squeezed his eyes shut. This wasn't the first time he'd seen John in a hallucination like that, but even though ir had happened before and he knew in his cold, calculating mind that John wasn't there, it didn't hurt any less. He swallowed, drawing his legs up. His sat his chin on his knees, and despite trying as hard as he could, a tear rolled down his cheek.

A split second later, Sherlock stood up. He brushed his right hand over his cheek. "I'm leaving." There was no one in the house except him, so he spoke both to himself and to John, even though he couldn't see him. "I'm coming back, I'm leaving. I can't do it. I'll protect them." He told himself that repeatedly. He ran through the house - a litteral run - to get his things. His coat was the only thing he actually needed. He was dressed in a mish-mashed array of things, including a blue sock, a black one, lounge pants, and a white-button up shirt with the buttons done-up wrong. He yanked his black coat on, shoving his arms in. He pulled it tight around himself, then turned up the collar.

"I'm coming home. I'm coming home. I'm coming home," Sherlock repeated. He ran through the hallway, skidding through it on his socked feet. "I'm coming home." He grabbed the door handle, yanking it open. The door flew open and slammed against the wall. He didn't even bother closing it as he tore outside. It was sprinkling, the rain very light. He didn't even care that his feet splashed into random puddles he came across. He deleted most of his surroundings, keeping a few thoughts at the very front of his mind. "I'm coming home. I'm coming home. Home. Home."

And that's what 221b was now. Before he'd met John, it had been just a flat, just a place to stay. But after John had moved in, it became more. It became a home. A real one.

_Splash!_

His right foot - the one with the black sock - hit a puddle, soaking it. Yet Sherlock ignored the wet soaking up his foot and the ends of his lounge pants. "I'm coming home. I'm coming home. I'm coming home. I'm coming home," he said. He kept repeating those three words over and over, his lips forming them and his vocal chords pushing it out . "Home. Home. Home."

The sidewalk was hard under his feet. He wasn't in London, though. He was in Cardiff. It would take him exactly 2 hours and 34 minutes to get back to London if he drove. But he didn't have a car... And would a cab even take you that far? Probably not. That left one option. Sherlock pulled out his phone, not even stopping in his running. He punched in a phone number, a series of numbers he'd memorized, not needing to search his contacts for the number. He held the phone up to his ear. It rang a few times before someone finally picked up on the other end. "Mycroft Holmes."

"Brother dear," Sherlock said. "I'm going home. And as I do not have a car, I need a ride."

"Sherlock, are you sure that's a good idea?" Mycroft said. "Your frie- John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade could be targeted again if you return to London." Mycroft's voice came through the phone as Sherlock ran across the sidewalk. No one cast him a glance.

"I'm going home," Sherlock said, in a 'it's-final-I-don't-care-what-you-think' way. "I will protect them. Now, I need a ride. I'm going home. Give. Me. A. Ride."

Mycroft sighed through the phone. He listed of an address that Sherlock immediately memorized. "Be there in 10 minutes. There'll be a car waiting for you." With a click, Mycroft hung up. Sherlock shoved his phone back in his pocket. He glanced around him, catching a street name. He ran it through his mental map, quickly figuring out where he was and what direction to go in, all without slowing down.

"I'm coming home. I'm coming home. I'm coming home," he repeated. He ran, now knowing a destination, and seemed to go faster. "Home. Home. Home. John. Home." Sidewalks passed under his feet and buildings flashed past his vision, but he was only looking for one particular building. The building he needed to find to get his ride to go home.

Home. Where John was. And Mrs. Hudson. And Lestrade.

Sentiment. He made a slight face of disgust. Sentiment. It was a weakness. And it seemed to be... He seemed to have it now. Such a human emotion. A human emotion he didn't even need! He had sentiment, and now he didn't even have alone. Alone protects you. But he had begun to doubt that because of something John had said. "No it doesn't. Friends protect you," he murmered, quoting John while pulling his collar up.

Merely 4.31 minutes after Sherlock hung up, he arrived at the address Mycroft had given him. He procedded then to tear the soaked socks off his feet and toss them aside. His mind was spinning, thoughts swirling through it. He counted the seconds until Mycroft finally arrived. He counted every single one.

"1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6." And he kept counting.

"420. 421. 422. 423. 424. 425." The car pulled up and without any hesitations or waiting or any pause - the car had barely stopped - Sherlock jumped in. He was still wet from the rain, but he'd barely even noticed the weather. He kept counting as they drove, counting the seconds. "426. 427. 428. 429. 430."

As the miles blurred by, the numbers rose with Sherlock's voice. "5420. 5421. 5422. 5423."

London drew nearer and nearer. He kept counting, his lips framing the numbers without actually saying them. _ 9220. 9221. 9222. 9223. 9224. 9225._

Then, finally - _finally _- Sherlock saw it.

The old, familiar wooden door with its faded gold numbers. His hand was on the car door handle and his bare feet were on the sidewalk followed by his miss-matched clothed body exactly 4.9 seconds after he read the faded gold on the door to his _home._ Almost defying science that he loved and logic that he lived and worked by, Sherlock almost flew across the sidewalk. He didn't even glance back as the black car pulled away. Sherlock's stormy eyes John could never decide the colour of were fixed on that door, that glint of gold. His feet barely touched the wet pavement as he ran towards it.

The great consulting detective's mind was almost completely blank. His only thoughts were thst of John and his flat and their landlady and their cases and the sometimes-annoying D.I Lestrade and the idiot Anderson who he missed making fun of. He pulled open the door. It wasn't even locked. He couldn't turn his mind off completely, so he registered that. Could something be wrong? Perhaps someone had just forgotten to lock it. Perhaps nothing was wrong.

But that was a long shot.

As soon as he tore through the door, he noticed something else immediately. It was blood.

Blood was smeared across the bottom of the wall. It still looked fresh. Sherlock's heart pounded. Was it John's? He stopped, kneeling next to the smear. He reached forward and touched it, and scarlet came off on his fingers. It was mildly fresh, and to straight to be natural. It was put there purposely. Sherlock stood up suddenly. His head still covered in black curls turned towards the door leading to John's flat.

"John," he whispered. There was another deliberate smear of blood on the banister of the staircase and the door. His heart pounded even faster. "JohnJohnJohnJohn." Who else's blood would it be? Who's but John's? He flew again threw the door, the smear of scarlet on the doorknob coming off a bit on his hand.

Sherlock was actually scared of what he would find - something he never was.

Scared. He was scared for John. The cold-hearted detective was scared.

He finally, slowly, pulled open the door. What greeted him was the sitting room, but it looked different than it had been when he was living there. Subtle differences, but he wasn't interested in those differences. He was interested in the others.

His eyes traveled from his feet across the floor. There were clear signs of a struggle. Well, clear if you were a consulting detective. They were subtle, as if someone had cleaned up the evidence but purposely left some behind. Blood droplets were left on the carpet, a puddle of it lying next to John's chair, which standing up like normal. Sherlock's usual seat, though, was on its side. Sherlock breathed out softly. Various items - science equipment, pillows, a mug - were scattered across the room as if thrown in a fight. Sherlock picked up the chipped mug. It was a white one, John's favorite. The last dregs of tea were left in the bottom of the cup. Finally, taking in all the evidence of a fight , his eyes traveled towards the wall.

And directly below his yellow painted smiley face, was a message - written in blood.

_I will burn the heart right out of you._

_Love, JM_

ooooOoOoOoooo

_Where did I go wrong? _

_I lost a friend._

_Somewhere along in the bitterness_

_And I would have stayed up with you all night _

_Had I known how to save a life._

ooooOoOoOoooo

_Somewhere far away, someone - a blonde-haired, short, bloody, beat-up, shot someone - yelled something. One word. One name._

_ "Sherlock!"_


End file.
